


Some Do Not

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They must look like lovers, he reckons. Like lovers from another century, driven by the chaste shadow of something that vaguely resembles romance and the soft sound of an orchestra accompanying every sway and every move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Do Not

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of a novel I'm writing, I just posted it here to see if anybody thinks it's okay. And to point out mistakes and flaws I have, without any doubt, made.

This place is grit and glamour and she is just the same. 

It has been a long time since he had to deal with this; this: a woman in his arms, like frail decoration, her neck bend in a perfect display of misplaced admiration. The (too) strong grip of his hand on her waist and the other holding hers; slender fingers intertwined with his own.  
They must look like lovers, he reckons. Like lovers from another century, driven by the chaste shadow of something that vaguely resembles romance and the soft sound of an orchestra accompanying every sway and every move. He tries to abandon his thoughts, tries to concentrate on the feeling of another body in intoxicating proximity, on the next step, the next note. He averts his gaze, looking down upon her. Her soft warm breath gushes against his chin in a steady interval, eyes sparkling with innocence and mischief. Unspoken promises written out in the liquid coating of her deer like eyes. His fingers clench as he fights the urge to caress her swanlike, marble white neck with the tip of his finger; a vein clearly visible underneath her skin as it seems almost translucent in the harsh light of the neon lamps. A play of shadows on her shoulders, the dip between her clavicle filled with darkness. She giggles as she notices how his gaze travelled down, causing him to snap out of it; concentrating on her face once more. Her lips are bitten cherry red as the old Volkswagen his parents used to call their own, her eyes an unsettling green. Foxfire and witch cauldrons. The music is fading, people are leaving while he's still standing there, eyes fixed upon her, hands safely intertwined with hers.

They part as the music comes to a stop, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She giggles again; a high pitched, soft chuckle that resonates in his ribcage, a flash of heat spiking beneath the apex of his heart. “Oh, but I feel like dancing!” she exclaims, throwing her head back playfully, in childlike bliss. “Let us dance a little bit more!”  
The orchestra picks up again on her cue; a slow waltz. A waltz that has been written for lovers by a man who might have nodded agreeably as his eyes would fall upon this scene. A waltz written for lovers like they appear to be.  
Her fingers are loose in his own, she's making no attempt to hold him as she knows she's got him wrapped around her long, pale fingers, her eyes are closed and the smile never leaves her mouth. She leans forward, her head safe in the crook of his neck. “Now,” she whispers, the ghost of a laugh that threatens to escape her parted lips colouring her voice, warm breath against his ear, “don't be so stiff!” A laugh escapes his throat, distorted by nervousness and shaky breaths. “You're not the first to say so,” he answers, eyes fixated on nothing in particular. Their shadows are playing on the wooden, clean floor. Mingling and intertwining, parting as the light changes its angle, only to be drawn back towards each other. Like lovers once again.  
She has not been the first to tell him. There has been a girl before. A girl with whom he danced in the soft, warm light of candles with the smell of flowers thick in the air. Glitter and elation and freedom on their tongues. There's a moment filled with melancholia that threatens to take over his heart, but as she giggles once again the feeling disappears into thin air, leaving him breathless as if he is living the romance novels he once read. It's a pleasant laugh; a laugh that is provoked by happiness and warmth. Or maybe that's just him, writing his own feelings into her actions. He hasn't known her for too long, they met two weeks ago in the grey room filled with tables that have been collecting dust for long enough. Too much élan and anticipation filled his heart as she sat down next to him, throwing her long, strawberry blonde hair back with a swift movement of her hand. Because he has always been one to get his heart broken. There's something revolting about him, about the way his hands never stop trembling and his voice seems too high pitched whenever he opens his mouth. '  
But he's a romantic, always a romantic. Finding ways to express himself in words written down, rather than to speak them out loud. Because, oh, he might be a skilled player with words when they're ink black on paper or hidden in the back of his mind, but he lacks the skill to make them come alive; to voice them and make them real. And he's an egoist; vain and noble. Interpreting too much into the actions of others; seeing patterns and illusions when all there is to see is dust soaring in rays of faint light. Amory Blaine in the twenty-first century, utterly misplaced and doomed in the most romantic sense of the word.  
  
“If it has been told before, it might be true,” she tells him, softly, bringing him back. She's wearing a white, linen dress. It's simplicity enchanting while simultaneously giving her the illusion of being something pure and chaste. Which she is not; pure. She's the type that falls for bad boys with broken pasts and breaks them even more; proud on her ability to inflict pains that go deeper and never leave. She leaves them mad and praying to the god they've denied. There is something inside her that screams _bored_ every time she gets too close. He knows this because she told him. She told him on a warm, Indian summer night in the middle of September, her body inches away from his own; separate sheets, same bed. She told him of her desperate chase for a mystery; for an everlasting game of _get to know._ “I don't want to get to know you,” she had whispered to him in a low, soft voice. “For I am afraid it will make you normal. My dear, don't be normal!” There was a faint desperation colouring her soft voice. And he promised to himself he wouldn't be normal; he would be as she wanted him to be! For this might be his chance to find love and lust, as repulsing those things might have been for him the longest time.  
He realises he has been quiet for so long, so he hastily answers, "Yes, it might be."  
As their eyes lock he can feel the tremolous smile cutting at the corners of his mouth, the light making him cock his head in an angle that feels too weird.  
She, fully automatically he assumes, cocks her head to the opposite side, as if she's about to kiss him. He sucks in a shaky breath as he leans in closer. Noses touching in a gentle way, eyes closing and lips parting. He sees flashes of a devilish smile adorning the otherwise so soft features of her young face as she withdraws herself.  
"Don't be boring," she whispers, reproving.  
But, oh, he wants to be. Thoughts somersaulting and collapsing, but as he gathers himself again, he knows something has changed.  
  
Tomorrow he will drive home in solitude.  
And as she leans in again, her lips pressed against to his neck; just another move in this vicious game she's playing, he knows her next words before they leave her mouth.  
"Some kiss and know, some do not," she explains him, her mouth still against his throat. "When you kiss, you find out. When you don't, it's a mystery that will haunt you. You will never know what could have been and what shouldn't have been. Let me haunt you."  
The truth in her words make his skin crawl, because he knows, he knows this is the exact moment in which she became everything he will never be sure about. Everything he will never know.  
Because some do, and some do not. 

 


End file.
